


Destination Unknown

by boasamishipper



Category: Top Gun (1986), Top Gun: Maverick (2020)
Genre: 2020s, Angst, Arguing, Cats, Drunkenness, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Prompt Fill, Sharing a Bed, Top Gun: Maverick Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boasamishipper/pseuds/boasamishipper
Summary: He remembers his life twenty-five years ago, when everything was simpler and he and Ice used to fall into bed together, smiling, laughing, the day’s work behind them and the future ahead. How Ice would hold him close, how they’d wake up tangled in each other’s arms, complaining about each other’s snoring, each trying to bait the other into a good morning kiss. And now Maverick’s a captain and Ice is an admiral, and they’re both pushing sixty, and the future they might have had together is out of reach, like a distant star or a long gone dream.For Carly's prompt, "the place for you is in bed."
Relationships: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	Destination Unknown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).



> Credit to @simplecoffee for the theory that Mav left TOPGUN because he took a stand against the broken system and wasn't supported by the higher-ranked officers. All ensuing angst and heartbreak belong to me.

“I want another drink.”

“I heard,” says the bartender. She’s around Carole’s age, with long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and a no-nonsense expression. Maverick wishes Penny were here tonight; maybe then he wouldn’t have gotten cut off. Then again, Penny would’ve given him sympathy that he didn’t deserve, so this is probably for the best. “The only drink I’m serving you until your ride shows up is coffee.”

“Don’t need a ride.” Maverick pushes his stool back from the counter, scrunching his face up at the screeching noise the action produces. He gets down and crosses his arms over his chest, and then casually grabs the back of the stool for support. The bartender doesn’t look impressed. “I can walk. I can drive, too. Got a motorshycle — motro — _bike,_ got my bike parked outside.”

“Sir, I really can’t advise you to drive home in this condition.”

“My condition’s fine,” Maverick says. “Watch. I can sing a straight line and walk my ABCs and everything.” He turns around to prove it, and staggers right into someone’s chest. A solid chest that belongs to an equally solid, familiar person. “Fuck.”

“My thoughts exactly,” says Ice. His posture is straight and his hair is neat and perfect because of course it is, that’s just like him. He’s still in uniform too; had he been at NAWDC all this time, or does he just sleep in his khakis like some kind of perfect Navy robot? 

_He’s not perfect,_ whispers a tiny, traitorous voice in the back of his mind. _Neither are you. Remember when you were not-perfect together, when you were happy, when you—_

Maverick cuts that thought off before it can get any further. Too much. Not right now. (Not ever.) Instead, he opens his mouth to say something witty and cutting, but what comes out instead is, “The hell are you doing here?”

Ice reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of keys, jangling them so Maverick can see. “I’m your ride, Cinderella.”

“What?” Okay, that’s definitely not right. Never mind that he’s fine enough to get himself home, but he doesn’t remember calling anybody to come get him, let alone Iceman fucking Kazansky. Whirling around on unsteady legs, he stares down the remaining patrons and says (as authoritative as he can), “Hey! Which one of you called him?”

All of the kids still in the bar develop a sudden fascination with the contents of their drinks. Fanboy is blushing up to the roots of his hair, so he’s either the culprit or just as drunk as Maverick. Probably the former. 

“Traitors,” Maverick says, but they’re not listening anymore. To Ice, he says, “I don’t need a ride.”

“Well, I’m already here,” Ice says. “And you’re drunk, so you’re getting one whether you want it or not.” To the bartender, who’s watching these proceedings like a dogfight — or a drone fight now, he guesses, though he can’t remember if that’s the right term or not — he says, “He all paid up, ma’am?”

The bartender nods. Maverick hates that they’re talking about him like he isn’t even there, but he can’t find the words to protest. “He opened a tab with a hundred dollar bill; I think I owe him about fifty in change.”

“Give yourself a good tip, and then give the rest to me.” She hands Ice the change, which he puts in his pocket. Then Ice turns back to Maverick, his arms crossed over his chest and his brows arched slightly, and Maverick wants to punch him right in his perfect face. “Come on, Maverick.”

“I’m not a fuckin’ damsel in distress, Kazansky. I don’t need a ride home.” _Especially not when even fucking looking at you or hearing your voice makes me forget that I shouldn’t—_

“Mav,” Ice says quietly, and all the fight drains out of him at once. It had been twenty-five years since they’d last seen each other, but Ice could have said his name in that voice and Maverick would have gone to the moon for him had he asked.

And he can tell from the stares on his back (born from pity, he knows, or from a mutual grief) that this is as close to a graceful exit as he’s ever going to get. That this is Ice having his back, wingman to wingman. So he musters up the remaining ounces of dignity he has and follows Ice out of the bar, his head held up high.

Ice’s car is parked near the front, right next to Maverick’s bike — a nice gray Lexus that probably cost more than what Maverick earned in a year. Luckily, Ice doesn’t make conversation, so Maverick spends the ride staring out the window, watching the houses blur together. Which one of these is Bradley’s? Is he there alone, or are Bob and Phoenix there to keep him company now that Fritz can’t? Now that Fritz is—

“Mitchell.”

“Jesus.” Maverick startles, knocking his elbow hard against the seat console and biting back a hiss of pain. He’s still in the car, but they’re no longer moving, and the house Ice had parked in front of isn’t his. “This isn’t my place.”

“You didn’t tell me what your address was before you fell asleep,” Ice says, and Maverick feels his face go red. Had he really been asleep? “This is my house.”

Maverick’s tongue feels too big for his mouth. “What?”

“This is my house. I live here. You can either stay the night inside or in the car, because I’m not driving anywhere else tonight.”

Part of Maverick wants to stay in the car just to be contrary, but even Drunk Him knows that’ll be hell on every part of his body in the morning. Temporary embarrassment wins out over more pain that he won’t know what to do with (even if physical would be better than emotional at this point), so he gets out of the car and stumbles after Ice to the front door. 

Ice’s house is nice too. He’d expected something out of a museum or a what’s-it-called, an IKEA magazine — everything stylish and neat and in its proper place, with signs on the walls announcing _You break it you buy it_ — but the furniture is older, and there’s a mess of books on the coffee table, and (weirdest of all) a black cat laying on a pile of blankets on the living room couch, staring at Maverick. Maverick stares back, wondering just how drunk he really is. “Is that a cat?”

Ice switches on the light, and Maverick squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing. When he opens them again, the cat is still there, now crossing the room to see if he’s a friend or foe. From the way it stops a few feet away and cocks its head to the side, the results are inconclusive. “SR-71, Maverick Mitchell. Maverick Mitchell, SR-71.”

For the first time in ages, he feels himself smile. “You named your cat SR-71?”

Ice doesn’t dignify the question with a response, but the tips of his ears go slightly pink. “Come on. Bedroom’s this way.”

Maverick follows — and trips over his own two feet on the rug. Ice grabs him by the elbow with a muffled curse and helps him back into an upright position. “Your rug is stupid,” Maverick informs him, glaring at the rug in question. Stupid blue fuzzy circle thing. Even the cat doesn’t like it. “You should get rid of it.”

“Thanks for the advice. Come on. Walk.”

The bedroom isn’t that far away from the living room, but it feels like a hundred miles when the world keeps spinning. Ice sits him down on the bed and then moves toward the dresser, rummaging through the drawers while Maverick looks around. It looks nothing like Ice’s bedroom from his house in Miramar; he got a new bed and new sheets since then. “I liked the green better.”

“What?”

“You know. The green.” Maverick gestures. “You got blue now. I liked the green better.”

“Jesus wept,” Ice says, though from the way he’s gone stiff, Maverick can tell Ice knows exactly what Maverick means. “How drunk are you?”

“M’not that drunk,” Maverick says, offended. Then, “Where’re you going?”

Ice stops by the door, a bundle of blankets tucked under his arm. “Living room.”

“Why?”

Ice sighs. “Because I don’t have a guest bedroom.”

The problem dawns on him slowly, followed by a solution. He stands up, swaying slightly. “I’ll take the couch then.”

“Don’t be stupid. The place for you is in bed. Sit back down.”

Maverick waits a minute. Then he announces, “I’m sitting ‘cause I want to. Not ‘cause you told me to.”

“I can’t believe they made you a captain,” Ice mutters, and Maverick ignores that comment in favor of the other solution that just popped into his head.

“Share with me.”

Ice stiffens again. “What?”

“Share the bed. S’only one night.” _It’s not like we haven’t done it before,_ he almost says, but even in this state he knows that that’s the wrong thing to say. “Either that or I’m takin’ the couch.”

Ice looks at him for a while — really looks at him, like Maverick’s made of Saran wrap and Ice can see right through him to the wall. Not that that’s a surprise. Ice has always seen him for who he really is. Finally, he nods and sets down the blankets, and heads off to the bathroom to change.

While the water runs in the bathroom, Maverick kicks off his shoes and strips down to his shirt and boxers, and SR-71 stalks into the bedroom to investigate further. He holds out a hand that’s only a shaking a little, and the cat nudges its head against his palm with a soft meow. Another smile breaks free.

“I think your cat likes me,” Maverick tells Ice when he comes back, wearing an undershirt and faded pajama pants.

“She eats dry kibble out of a bag, she has no taste.” The words are more fond than mean as Ice kneels down to scratch SR-71’s head. She purrs at the touch, and Maverick tries not to feel jealous that Ice’s cat likes Ice more than she likes Maverick. “You’re in her spot.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Maverick more collapses on the right side of the bed than lays down, staring up at the ceiling. The world’s spinning, or maybe he’s spinning and the world is staying still. Then the mattress dips, and he feels Ice’s warmth against his side, and both the spinning and the world stop.

He tries not to think about the last time they were in bed together, but it’s like the details are tattooed into his brain, seared into the inside of his eyelids. He remembers his life twenty-five years ago, when everything was simpler and they used to fall into bed together, smiling, laughing, the day’s work behind them and the future ahead. How Ice would hold him close, how they’d wake up tangled in each other’s arms, complaining about each other’s snoring, trying to bait the other into a good morning kiss. And now Maverick’s a captain and Ice is an admiral, and they’re both pushing sixty, and the future they might have had together is out of reach, like a distant star or a long gone dream. 

“When did we get so old?”

A slight noise. Maybe a laugh, likely a cough. “When did everyone else get so young?”

“Mm,” Maverick says. “So young. And you. You got that old and wise elder thing going on. You’re an admiral now. Admiral fucking Kazansky.”

“I’m aware,” Ice says. “I was there for the ceremony.”

Maverick turns his head, sneaks a peek at Ice. His eyes are closed, and the moonlight streaming through the blinds casts a shadow on his face, makes his hair glint silver. _Beautiful,_ the traitorous voice in the back of his head murmurs, and he tells it to shut up. “Who else came?”

“My mother. My sister and her partner. Some friends, some people from work.”

Maverick swallows. “No wife?”

A long pause. “No. Never married.”

 _Thank God._ “No kids?”

“Just cats,” Ice says. SR-71, who’s curled up at the foot of the bed, twitches her tail in acknowledgement. “You?”

“No,” Maverick says. He’d had a handful of one night stands over the years, some male, some female, but nothing serious. And definitely no kids. Kids are too smart for him, too knowing. They can see through him without even trying, just like Penny’s daughter. Just like Bradley. “Bradley hates me.”

If Ice is confused by the change of subject, he doesn’t show it. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“Yes, he does.” Maverick remembers their confrontation at the start of the session, how Bradley — the spitting image of his father, though he can see Carole in there too — had gotten right in his face and said, _My dad believed in you, I’m not going to make the same mistake._ “He used to be this…this cute little kid. Grinning all the time, singing, playing with this little — this little fucking toy plane Carole got him. Worshipped the ground his dad walked on, y’know? And now he’s — he’s not that anymore.” He scrubs a hand down his face, ignores the wetness around his eyes. Mumbles, “I killed my RIO, I killed his WSO. Fuck. He’s right to hate me.”

“Maverick,” Ice says. “Look at me.” Maverick turns over. Ice is sitting up now. The moonlight from outside casts a glow over his face, making it seem like there’s a halo glinting off his head. SR-71 seems to sense this conversation is above her pay grade, and hops off the bed and stalks out of the room. “Goose’s death, Fritz’s death: it was an accident. What happened to them wasn’t your fault.”

“Miller made me tell Fritz and Bradley to do that maneuver. I knew it was unsafe, I knew they shouldn’t—” Maverick presses his lips together. His hands quiver in their sweaty, white-knuckled grip on the bedsheets. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Maverick, it—”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Ice frowns. “What was there to say?”

“Not about Bradley and Fritz,” Maverick says. His whole body is trembling, his stomach churning. His head is surprisingly clear. “About Jazz.” Aside from the quick rise and fall of Ice’s chest, there’s no indication the words have even registered. The words are spilling out of Maverick in a hot rush. A geyser. “You knew it wasn’t his fault. You let them court-martial him.”

“I didn’t let anything happen,” Ice says. The years seem to melt away from him. From both of them. They could be back in the CLR at Miramar, arguing, snapping and challenging, their voices bouncing off the red metal lockers. “He killed his RIO and two of the other students.”

“The Tomcat malfunctioned. He couldn’t control the fucking plane. He said that, he told everyone that but no one believed him. _I_ told you that and you didn’t believe me.”

“Don’t say that to me.” Now he’s shaking. They’re both standing now too, separated by five feet of bed and mattress and blankets. “You know I believed you, Maverick. I believed Jazz too. Tombstone and Digger and everyone else already made up their minds. What the hell were you expecting to happen? What the hell were you expecting me to do?”

“To have my back,” Maverick snaps. The white-hot burst of anger is illuminating, clearing his head even more. “To be my fucking wingman, Ice. How about that?”

All the color drains from Ice’s face. His next words come out tight, clipped short. “I would have,” he says. “If I’d known what you were going to do, I would have had your back.”

“You knew,” Maverick says. “I told you I was gonna confront them.” Even now, he can still remember bursting into Viper’s old office, yelling at Digger for trying to push the blame on the kid so the program’s reputation wouldn’t suffer. How Ice hadn’t met his eyes when he told Maverick to stop fighting for a lost cause. How Maverick left TOPGUN after the court-martial and didn’t look back. “Why didn’t you have my back then? ‘Cause you valued your career over the truth?”

“I don’t know.”

Maverick stops, incredulous. “You don’t, you don’t _know?_ What the hell do you mean you don’t know?”

“It means I _don’t fucking know,_ Maverick, alright? I don’t know what went through my head that day.” Ice runs his hands through his hair, rumpling it, as if trying to get himself back into the right state of mind. “I think,” he starts, then stops. “I think I was trying to protect you. I think…I think I thought if I was able to keep my position as someone Digger respected, I could keep them from transferring you, or giving you a DD, or whatever, for going against the bullshit they were trying to sell. Christ, I don’t know.” He inhales, reaching out with his right hand before abruptly pulling it back. His voice drops. “I just know I made a mistake and I lost you because of it, and I’ve spent the last twenty-five years regretting it.”

“I’m here,” Maverick says. The words come out breathless and a few moments late, like they were punched out of him. His heart is beating so hard he can hear it in his ears. “You never lost me, Ice. Fuck, you never—”

He steps forward — to embrace Ice, to kiss him, to say something else, maybe — and the next thing he knows he’s flat on his face, his shin smarting from where it hit the wood holding the mattress. The side rail. Fuck. Leave it to him to ruin the moment.

The mattress dips again. Maverick props himself up and sees Ice sitting next to him, his lips pressed firmly together to keep himself from laughing. “I forgot how graceful you can be.”

“Only when m’drunk.” He reaches out to take Ice’s hand, and Ice lets him. “I thought I lost you,” he says. “S’why I left. ‘Cause I thought you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” Maverick says. His head is fuzzy again, though from exhaustion or the alcohol he doesn’t know. “Can I kiss you? I missed kissing you. I missed you, Ice.”

He sees rather than hears the sharp intake of breath. “Tell you what,” Ice finally says. Steady, calm. “If you can remember this conversation when you’ve sobered up, you can kiss me all you want.”

“I’ll remember,” Maverick says. He’s still not sure this entire conversation isn’t a dream; if it is, he never wants to wake up. “Promise.”

“Okay.” Ice’s thumb traces a line over Maverick’s knuckles. There’s a tiny, desperately hopeful smile curving his mouth. “Come on. Bed. We can…talk more about this in the morning.”

Ice lays down, and Maverick does the same, drawing the blankets back up to his chest. He turns onto his side and meets Ice’s eyes. Sees Ice open his arms slightly. He hesitates — he still feels bloody and dirty and deadly, and he doesn’t want Ice near that — but Ice slides close, folding his arms around Maverick and pulling him in until Maverick’s back is pressed against his chest, and there are no words to describe how good it all feels.

“You never lost me, Mav,” Ice murmurs.

Tears prick at his eyes.

He hears screams in his sleep that night, but they don’t wake him up.


End file.
